


LYME (Like Yourself Minus Everything)

by cocoacremeandgays



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Amyotrophic lateral sclerosis, Blind Character, Dave's POV, Deaf Character, Disabled Character, Hospitals, I'm trying to spread awareness for Lyme Disease because it is incredibly underestimated, Implied/Referenced Depressive/Suicidal Thoughts/Behaviors, It gets real too, Lyme Disease Group Meetings, Multi, Multiple Sclerosis, Sick Characters, This Story gets deep, john is a doctor, lyme disease, paraplegic character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-02
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-24 06:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6144754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cocoacremeandgays/pseuds/cocoacremeandgays
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'm not crazy."</p><p>"I know."</p>
            </blockquote>





	LYME (Like Yourself Minus Everything)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! I'm really excited to post this story, because I've finally gotten something posted that isn't complete crap. (Finally my writer's block has been cured! Huzzah!)  
> But anyway, I'd like to say that I'm posting this to spread awareness of just how bad Lyme Disease can get. My mother had it for close to thirty years, and I know it was awful for her. This being said, I was absolutely shocked to find out that there are doctors who brush off people who actually have Lyme Disease as, "Just faking it", or, "Just depressed". I'm trying to send a message through this story (whilst also having a bit of fun with characters and such) to say that LYME IS REAL, and it's awful that doctors are ignoring those who really are suffering. Read if you so wish. If you have any further questions about Lyme Disease or this story, feel free to ask in the comments, or look up your questions online (though I'd suggest books instead of Lyme Disease information online, otherwise go to websites which have trust worthy information such as ILADS, or other such websites that are dedicated to Lyme Disease and such illnesses and research).  
> Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy this little story I've managed to cook up for all of you. :)

"I'm not crazy." You attempt to say clearly, though your voice only comes out as a scratchy plead. You think it might be due to the fact that you are partially blinded by the fatigue and soreness that consists of you, you and you alone- or maybe, you consist of it? You suppose that would make more sense, you consisting only of this fatigue, rather than this fatigue only consisting of you-. Your lungs betray you for a moment, and your eyes widen a good amount as you attempt to fill them again, with oxygen rather than the poison that stings at your lungs as said poison enters your airways rather than the air that you're supposed to breathe.

Your pupils dilate as you turn your gaze snail-speed over to the light fixture that hangs above your form, which is still just barely managing to take in the proper amount of air that you need to breathe. It pricks your lungs, trachea, mouth, and nose- the air does, you mean-, and it's a stinging sensation that you hate with all your might that breaks you out of whatever thoughts you had been trying to get lost in, trying to distract yourself from the pain.

Actually, now that you try your hardest to get lost in thought, you realize that there really isn't much "might" left in you anymore, because that fatigue you feel as a damn near constant is taking its toll. It seems to be targeting your stamina the most, with your energy having been officially limited to doing a length in a twenty foot pool. After that, you'd have expended all the energy you had left for the day. You've wasted your spoons, each movement of your body in order to achieve the length of the twenty foot pool would take a spoon. Your fucking spoons. You'd have negative amounts of spoons, if that would even be possible to achieve, and then you'd need to be carried out of the pool by someone willing to help you- "you", also known as that one sick guy.

Damn, twenty seven and you can hardly walk to the kitchen before needing a breather.

You just barely manage a gasp of breath. You're too tired to even breathe.

"I know." Dirk says, rubbing a steady line into one of your arms. Your left- no, right- arm. It's a relatively reassuring gesture that manages to make you feel a little better- emotionally, at least. If a simple arm rub was all that was needed to cure this- this- whatever it is- then you'd rub your arms all day. Have someone professionally rub your arm, you'd pay them well- so, so well- just so you wouldn't need to feel this way anymore. "I know." You almost jump out of your skin when Dirk speaks up again. You had almost completely forgotten Dirk was still here.

Hold on... Where is here? Fuck, your brain has gone and done it again, caused the information to back up and retreat like a frightened little weasel. That's what it is now, a frightened fucking weasel, because your thoughts come and go often enough for them all to just be explained a frightened little weasels.

And suddenly your frightened little weasel-brain decides to give you your location. Hospital. Right. You are in a hospital. A hospital that had a doctor who wouldn't write you off as just crazy- supposedly, anyway. You have longed to hear a doctor tell you that you weren't crazy ever since you came down with this illness when you were thirteen. You longed to meet a doctor that didn't think that you were "just depressed", or "faking it", or "in need of a psycho-evaluation". You needed a day- just one, please, dear God, just one- where a doctor- any doctor- actually believed you. But when have you ever been so lucky? Not once, in your twenty seven years. Not. Fucking. Once.

You choke on air for seemingly the hundredth time, your eyes closing as the light from the light fixture above you begins to get too bright for your eyes to handle. Light sensitivity has always been a problem for you, with your mutated-genetics deciding to fuck you over and accompany your awesome-colored eyes with light sensitivity which would result in headaches if you didn't wear those awesome shades Bro got you on your second birthday (you get a new pair when you outgrow or break your old pair, of course). Of course, though, the light sensitivity had only gotten worse with your relatively new-found illness.

Embarrassingly enough, you want to cry, but you're too tired to do that. Crying wouldn't do anything, anyway. It's a futile action, and only achieves making you tired, and causes only more pain- crying gives you a headache, and you already have one. You don't need it to worsen. Another shaky draw in of breath, and it's a pain that's all too familiar, that is there with you once again. You've breathed in that poison, once again. You don't want to breathe in poison, not anymore.

You want to be normal, is that too much to ask? You don't want to be in pain anymore, what wrong did you do to make you deserve this? What terrible, awful thing did you do that made God want to punish you in this way? To make you feel trapped in your own body, like you're encased so tightly in a bed sheet that you feel like a mummy, dead in a wrapping that's keeping you forcefully awake- you can't rest. You're obligated to stay awake.

 _Stay awake_ , you tell yourself, breathing heavy, dry breaths. _Stay awake. Just stay awake. Hold on, just breathe. You're okay, I'm okay, you'll be okay, I'll be okay, you'll get through this. I'll get through this. You'll survive. I'm going to make it._

"Dave, you holding in there, man?" You hear Dirk's voice, the hand that had been rubbing simply on your arm had now stopped. You felt like you were sinking, alone, in an ocean so dark and so black (so, so very black) that you can't tell which way is up- can't tell which way is out. The only way out- sure fire- is to let yourself sink.

But you can't, you need to struggle, you need to swim, not sink. You're okay, you're gonna be okay, everything's gonna be alright.

"Dave."

God, your head hurts. Please don't talk, you beg in your mind. You hope by some miraculous stroke of luck that Dirk will hear your unspoken pleas.

"Dave, you feeling twitchy?" What is Dirk talking about? You always feel twitchy, but you're not sure exactly if you feel twitchy. Do you feel twitchy? Maybe. You feel pain, most of all, but you also don't really feel. You just know that you hurt. You want it to stop (please, oh, God, please let it stop).

"Dave, are you feeling twitchy?"

"Hnngh..." That's all that you can manage- All you can even think of managing. A small groan of acknowledgement. You want to tell him you're in pain ( _when's the doctor gonna get here?_ ), want to say it's a bad day ( _a really, really bad day_ ). You want to tell him you're not crazy, but you're not sure- are you crazy or hazy, because your memory has really been going lately, it leaves you when you need it most, and maybe ( _just maybe_ ) you really are crazy. Because you know you aren't lazy, you'd get up if you could, you would, but maybe crazy is why you're unable to stand up, or move, or hardly able to breathe on your own. It's terrifying- it really is. You wouldn't wish this upon your worst enemy.

"The doctor's here," Dirk says quietly, and you don't want to listen to the noise of him shuffling around, or of this doctor shuffling around, because your head might just explode at the pressure you feel. It hurts so, so bad. "Dave, c'mon, open your eyes."

And so you do, you open your eyes and look towards the doctor- a tall (or short, maybe, you can't really tell) man with rectangular-framed glasses and black hair. His eyes are blue- really, really bright, too. He looks so young, twenty four at the oldest, which surprises you. Don't doctors generally go to years and years of medical school? No, of course they do, you need to know your shit.

"My name is John Egbert, and I'll be your doctor from now on." He seems to cheery, with a kind-of-dorky smile on his face.

"Ri-ght." Your voice breaks off in the middle, where you're sure you're running out of breath. You take a breather just in case. "That's- great, but, just... there's one thing you need to know. Okay?" You choke out, taking a deep breath in. It hurts to talk.

"Alright, and what's that?" The lost look hidden deep within his eyes is honestly adorable. It wouldn't be able to be spotted by anyone just giving him a normal look over. You need to really look- like, really, really look. You have to be good at reading people. You're actually fairly surprised that you can still read people as well as you used to be able to when you were younger, before this thing hit you. 

"I'm not crazy."

Doctor Egbert (fuck that sounds weird in your head, and probably even weirder when it's spoken, but you'll ignore that for now) grins politely at you, and it is so reassuring.

"I know."


End file.
